


Damn the Dark, Damn the Light

by hrrytomlinson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (I'm excited if you can't tell), (mostly directed at Niall), Actor Harry, Alternate Universe - Elizabethan Era, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Shakespeare, Harry Styles in a Dress, Harry in Makeup, Harry in a CORSET, Louis has a tiny hoop earring in his left ear (yes this is important enough to tag), M/M, Partly Inspired by Shakespeare In Love, Pining, Playwright Louis, Prince Harry Styles, Romeo and Juliet References, Second Chances, Shakespearean Sonnets, Shakespearean insults, Smut, mentions of minor character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-07 20:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12240180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hrrytomlinson/pseuds/hrrytomlinson
Summary: “Why is this face of beauty ringing so true?” The genuine confusion in Harry’s voice causes Louis’ chest to painfully twinge. “You’re a complete stranger in my eyes, William Shakespeare, but not in my heart. How is that possible?”Louis wants to live out every romance plot he has ever written in his own life. He wants to be the protagonist of his own narrative, the hero who finds true love and gets his happy ending. Instead, Louis is stuck with only dreaming of such wild fantasies and writing them down. He can create entire romances in his dreams, yet he can never live one.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [messofgorgeouschaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/messofgorgeouschaos/gifts).



> Hello messofgorgeouschaos! It was a pleasure writing this for you. I really hope you like this - I was inspired by the Elizabeth/Robert Dudley prompt, but as you can see, I wasn't really inspired by their story. So I hope it's okay with you that I did a bit of a compromise and wrote some of what you asked for and some of what I felt inspired by! I hope you enjoy xx
> 
> If you’re reading this, thank you, and I hope you enjoy historical inaccuracies and extreme creative license when it comes to William Shakespeare’s life and work. The opening quote (in what is technically chapter two) is an Edgar Allan Poe quote where he's talking about Anna Cora Mowatt, but I changed the pronouns and modified it to fit the description of Harry in this story LOL
> 
> Title is from The Chain - I couldn't stop listening to Harry's cover of it while I was writing this. Also, a GIANT thank you to my beta [B](http://haloeverlasting.tumblr.com) (follow her!!! read her stuff!!! she's the best!!!) for saving me and my writing again and again and again. I wouldn't know what to do without her.
> 
> Here you'll find my [tumblr](http://hrrytomlinson.tumblr.com/) and here you can find my [rebloggable fic post](http://hrrytomlinson.tumblr.com/post/166429577050/damn-the-dark-damn-the-light-by-hrrytomlinson-for)!! Thanks for reading and I hope you like it - if you do please leave some kudos and comments or reblog the post? xx Thank you for reading :')

♕ _prologue_  

“Harry, are you ready? Our guests should be here any moment.”

Harry pops out of his bedroom and races towards his mother’s voice, his thunderous footsteps matching the volume of his mother’s call. The mop of curly hair wildly on the top of his head flops as he bounds and leaps down the grand staircase. Harry’s excited to finally have visitors in his home—visitors that aren’t weird distant family members or show offs. They’re the worst kind of visitors, they never want to play with Harry in garden. Maybe these new visitors will want to play with Harry.

The palace is bustling and busy for a Saturday morning and the queen’s voice is yet another layer on top of all the sound. As Harry stands by his mother’s side at the front entrance, servants flutter around them restlessly, making sure every tiny detail is put in place and that breakfast will be ready to serve the moment their special guests walk through the door. Harry can’t help but squirm as he tries to stand in one place, his toes pointing inwards, his back curved into a slouch. His teeth pull at his bottom lip as he bites and picks at his fingernails.

“Proper posture, Harold,” Anne scolds. “Stop fidgeting, you’re going to dirty your new breeches.”

Harry instantly rearranges himself to stand up straight, his hands locked behind his back, his feet shoulder-width apart. “Sorry, Mummy,” he mumbles as he stares at the ground in front of him and tries his very best to not chew on his bottom lip.

The next thing Harry knows, the front doors are swinging open to reveal an older gentleman and a very tiny man by his side. The sunlight streaming into the palace is blinding and Harry squints, eager to identify who Mum invited into their home. Harry can’t see much until the doors close behind their visitors, and when they do, he realizes that the gentleman’s companion isn’t a tiny man, but a boy around his own age. _Hopefully_ around his own age. Maybe they can play in the garden together.

“Welcome Master Mark Tomlinson and son Louis Tomlinson,” some servant announces. The two bow deeply at their waist, Mr. Tomlinson’s movements natural and practiced, Louis’ mechanic and rigid like he was taught the proper greeting just minutes prior.

“Your Majesty,” Mr. Tomlinson greets Harry’s mother, his voice rich and full of respect. “Thank you for requesting my services. I will be happy to fulfill your request. I beg your pardon, however, for I had to bring my son with me today.”

Harry watches as Anne nods. “I hope your journey was an easy one.”

“Yes, it was. Thank you for inviting us into your home, I would not have expected you to make your own journey to Stratford-upon-Avon yourself.”

The grown ups continue their conversation, but twelve-year-old Harry blocks it out as he stares at Louis helplessly from across the entryway. Harry can’t take his eyes off the newcomer, everything about him is so magnetic, so enthralling. Harry can see his shining blue eyes from where he’s standing. His plain brown and white clothing so different from what Harry is used to seeing on a daily basis. He is short and fidgets from side to side as he accompanies his father. His whole being looks like it’s full of potential energy waiting to be released and Harry thinks he knows exactly how Louis feels. Harry wants to be free from this rigid and formal greeting ceremony, he would much rather prefer to run around the back garden right now and maybe find a stray cat to chase before he grows too tired.

“Harry,” hearing his own name brings his mind back reality and Harry decides to listen to what his mother has to say. “You can take Louis to the garden if you wish to play. Please be mindful of dust and dirt, your breeches are new.”

Harry bows to his mother in thanks, trying to hold in his shouts of elation and the giant smile threatening to take over his entire face. He turns to Louis and seeing the smile on the new boy’s face causes his own mischievous smirk to finally break out across his lips. Harry holds out his hand and Louis immediately latches on.

They start out with a normal gait, but the farther and farther they get from their parents, the faster they begin to walk. They finally break out into a full run as Harry guides Louis through the mazes of halls to the back door, their hands still faithfully clasped together.

Fresh air hits their faces hard as they break out into the outdoors. They laugh deliriously as they tackle each other onto the grass lawn, rolling around as their faces and chests ache from constant smiles and endless giggles.

Harry looks at his new companion laying beside him in the grass. They smile at each other and Harry’s pleased to realize his face actually _hurts._ He hasn’t laughed this hard in…forever. It’s a glorious feeling.

They lay panting, the wet morning dew coating the blades of grass slowly soaking through the heavy fabrics of Harry’s outfit. His new breeches that his mother fussed over so much already sporting spots of brown dirt and stains of green grass.

Harry smiles dopily at Louis from where he’s laying, his eyes cataloging every detail of his new friend’s face. Harry prays this isn’t the last day he’ll see it. Louis, oblivious to the intensity of Harry’s gaze, has his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling deeply, like for the first time in his life he’s finally at peace.

“I’m Louis William Tomlinson,” the boy whispers. “I am fourteen years old, and I’m from Stratford-upon-Avon. Wanna be friends?” Louis opens his eyes for the last part, turning his head to eagerly stare right back at Harry. Harry furrows his eyebrows as they watch each other carefully.

Harry’s head is still buried in the grass, his back itches from the Earth beneath him, and he thinks hard about the soft words that just Louis’ chapped lips moments ago. He’s never had any friends. He doesn’t know proper friendship etiquette, but he does know he wants to be Louis’ friend. He wants Louis to be his first friend. He sits up slowly and nods, his green eyes still hooked on Louis’ blues. “I’m Harry. I’m twelve. Wanna find the cat so we can chase it around?”

They sit in silence, quietly regarding each other. Everything seems so new, so _fascinating_ —their two different worlds colliding with each other, a fact that Harry and Louis are completely oblivious to.

They spend the rest of the day side by side, running around the palace’s grounds, going on adventures through the halls when it starts to rain. Their bond is instant and even though Harry has lived in and walked these hallways his entire life, he can’t help but let Louis lead him across the carpets and tiles, past portraits and locked ornate doors. Louis, in his soft plain brown and white rags he wears as clothes, on any other occasion would be worlds apart from Harry and his deep, dark blue rigid velvet clothing with gold trim, but as they chase one another and giggle like the children they are, suddenly their social status and last names mean absolutely nothing. They are just two boys. Harry: completely enchanted by Louis’ energy and mischievousness. Louis: enthralled by Harry’s dimples, charming exterior, and troublemaking tendencies.

They sit on the ground of some random hallway in the east wing beneath a giant painting of some distant relative of Harry’s as they attempt to catch their breath. Harry can’t believe he and Louis have spent the whole day together, his eyes catching the setting sun shining through the glass of the window at the far end of the hall.

Harry’s breathing finally settles as he takes one last gulp of air. “Thanks,” he says simply, not even looking at Louis, instead, staring happily at the stains decorating his clothes. For once these stains _mean_ something. They don’t mean that he spilled food on his lap or chest, they don’t mean he accidently swiped his sleeve through wet paint on a canvas. They mean he had _fun,_ they mean that he finally made a life long friend, and that, within a few short hours, had too many adventures to keep track of—but the stains on his clothes did.

“Louis, do you promise to stay best friends forever? We will meet again, right?”

Louis doesn’t have time to answer how he wants to, disappointment falling over his face, before Harry before their names are being called, their presence requested by the front door. He does, however, nod and whisper “I promise,” as he squeezes Harry’s hands tightly between his own.

As they stand in the entryway to watch their guests depart, Harry sags against his mother’s legs, exhausted, proper princely poster forgotten, as he watches Louis grasp his father’s hand. Louis walks out the front door, his feet taking him far away from Harry, the frown on his face matching Harry’s.

Harry waves goodbye, sad to see his new friend going. He wishes and prays that he’ll see Louis again soon. He closes his eyes tightly as one of the servants shuts the door behind the now departed father and son, the loud sound of it closing reverberating throughout his whole body. He wishes it didn’t sound too final, too real, too much like a permanent goodbye.


	2. 1600

_ his figure is slight, even fragile, but eminently graceful. his face is a remarkably fine one and that of precise character best suited to the stage. his eyes are emerald green, brilliant and expressive. the mouth is somewhat large with even teeth and flexible lips capable of the most effective variations of expression. his voice is rich and voluminous. _

… 

The room is warm, not comfortable, but not entirely uncomfortable. It’s humid enough for the fabric of shirts to stick too close to the skin, for palms to become too slick with sweat to properly grip a quill. The early afternoon buzz of the London crowd outside of the dwelling seeps through the walls, a dim background soundtrack to the already present noises alive within the room. The hard wood of the chair cuts in the meat of the sitter’s thighs, the lower back aching from the constant hunch in it, the neck in even more pain. 

_ William,  _ he writes, the tip of the quill scratching gently against the parchment. The sound is music to his ears. A sound that could soothe his soul no matter the context, a sound he wishes he could hear more often. He finishes signing the full name by scrawling out  _ Shakespeare,  _ a flourish at the end of it marking the white paper with pure black ink.

He holds the paper at a distance, surveying the newest version of his signature on the long list with a hard gaze. Like the others before it, Louis doesn’t like the way it looks. Too shaky, too imperfect, too much hesitancy in the spaces between the scrawling letters as they spread across the page. He sighs and scratches it out, a thick black line spearing it through the center. No matter how long Louis has gone by his pen name, it will never feel like the real him. He still struggles to sign it and finds himself practicing it more often than writing actual plots, like he should be. 

Louis continues mindlessly practicing the strokes and slopes of his name as Niall paces the room, babbling nonsensically about something or other. Louis doesn’t care. Maybe he should, but he doesn’t care about much these days other than obsessively planning his next drama.

The floor creaks under Niall’s ever shifting weight, whining under the pressure of his footsteps. It sounds like screaming, which is no different and as equally non-pleasing to Louis’ ears than Niall’s voice in this moment. 

“We did so well, Lou,” Niall drones on, excitedly. It only causes Louis to be more perturbed. “The tragedy was so well received by the audience, it leads me to think that we should put on another one. Othello? Macbeth? What are you thinking, sir?” 

Louis rolls his eyes, head bowed, now studying the grain of the desk, hand tired from the repetition of the movements of writing. It’s more interesting to stare at the plank of wood than listening to whatever Niall is talking about. Louis hums, hoping the response satisfies his friend.

And it does. “Okay! Macbeth it is. One of my favorites,” Niall gushes. 

“That’s nice.” It’s not. 

“Moving on.” The floor and its creaking gets even louder—Niall’s voice mimicking the crescendo. Louis wants to tear his hair out. “As you may or may not know, Zayn has fallen ill and won’t be able to take his usual role—”

Louis’ attention is finally caught. He drop his quill onto the table, head snapping to attention, eyes wide and surveying Niall’s face. “Zayn? What happened?”  

Niall sighs, standing still at last in the center of the room. It’s so peacefully quiet now that his pacing has ceased and Louis wishes it could stay that way, but he wishes for an explanation about Zayn even more. 

“Zayn is ill, Louis. Will you please pay attention. The fool is bedridden—”

“Bedridden?!”

“Louis!” Niall huffs. “Quit interrupting me, you toad. Zayn is ill, he can no longer fulfill his role. You need a new woman.”  

Louis crumples, head falling against the hard wood of the back of the chair, eyes slipping closed in exhaustion. Zayn  _ was _ showing signs of not feeling well last week, yet Louis kept pushing him to work harder. He should’ve known he’d fall ill sooner or later. Hopefully whatever he caught hasn’t affected any other actors. But Zayn is the best female they’ve had in their company in a long time, and now he won’t be able to fulfill the role they need him for. What else could go wrong? 

“What are we going to do, Niall? We can’t put on a show without the leading lady, you know this.”

Niall gasps, offended. “Of course I know this, you three-inch fool!” The creaking returns, and Louis wants to absolutely scream. Niall isn’t even pacing anymore, the sound is just  _ haunting _ Louis now—it’s the only explanation. “That’s why I already found a replacement. The problem has already been solved, no thanks to you. Meet Harry.”

The creaking grows louder as figure walks through the doorway. Louis is somewhat aware that Niall is still talking, but Louis finds himself now completely distracted by the vision that just materialized in front of him and is walking his way. His heart gets stuck in his throat, his already clammy hands getting more damp the longer he stares at the stranger standing before him. 

The stranger, Harry, is all soft, porcelain skin, so visibly pure and unmarred by the hardships of life, of _London._ He looks so completely vulnerable, _out of place,_ standing here in front of Louis, a man who is so evidently his opposite in every possible way. Louis knows he is all strong angles, he knows the single tiny silver hoop hanging from his left ear causes the more noble citizens to cast second glances at him. He is known for being dangerously sharp and his own face twitches at the sight of Harry’s bare, hairless skin; Louis’ hand proudly brushing over his reddish-brown scruff that decorates his chin and cheeks as he eyes Harry from head to toe. 

Louis stares at him hard. Niall is still talking, yet Harry seems to be just as ignorant to him as Louis is, his own emerald green eyes quietly regarding Louis, something peculiar growing in them. Louis watches as Harry narrows his eyes and observes him. His head tilts slightly to the right, the long brown curls around his shoulders shifting with the action. Louis can tell something is happening inside of the man’s head—he’s thinking hard about something, trying to hard to remember something. Louis subconsciously straightens his back defiantly as they study each other from across the room. Harry gives up, though, his face returning back to its original blank slate, his eyes opening up once again to simply make curious eye contact and nothing more. 

Louis can’t help but be drawn to Harry’s eyes. The shade is so royal, so luxurious, it almost shakes Louis out of his skin. And then it hits him: the same royal green that matches perfectly to the royal green Louis first met over ten years ago. The stranger standing before Louis Tomlinson, a simple peasant and son of a glove maker from Stratford-Upon-Avon, is none other than Prince Harry, virgin prince who has been hidden from the public from the age of thirteen, the very prince who is next in line for the throne who refuses to court a wife, refuses to even produce his own heir the the throne. 

It’s been many years since their first and only meeting, but Harry hasn’t changed much. He had an unforgettable presence the first time Louis encountered him, and now, it seems he has only matured in age, wisdom, and grace. 

“Master Shakespeare,” Harry reverently greets, bowing deep from his waist. It would seem Niall finally stopped speaking. That, or Harry has decided to speak over him. Louis finds the latter entirely more amusing and wishes it be true. 

Louis nods at Harry’s greeting and stands to be at his level. Or as much on his level as he can be. Louis doesn’t know why he’s so surprised that the prince is much taller than him. Their last meeting  _ was _ at the ages of twelve and fourteen, why now at twenty-four and twenty-six would things not have changed? Louis truly is a three-inch fool; Niall is right.

“What’s your last name, boy?” Louis strategically asks. He waits for Harry to flinch, to break down, to do  _ something _ other than quickly and smoothly answering.

“Styles. Harry Styles, sir.”

“And you want to act in my play?” Louis raises an eyebrow questioningly. 

“Of course I do. Who wouldn’t want to?” Harry’s eyes shine bright, a million lanterns lit behind them. Magical. “I enjoy your works, Will, more than any other piece of literature I’ve seen put into action. The words you write, the very words that come to life on the stage, mean the world to me. They inspire not only me, but a whole world of others. As I stand amongst the other groundlings during any one of your productions, I can see the awe and admiration in the eyes of those that surround me. I’m not the only one who becomes paralyzed over the cadence and fluidity of the words you write.” 

Harry’s cheeks are a bright pink, the most loveliest shade Louis has ever seen. More lovely a shade than any of the cheeks he’s seen in the back alleys behind taverns after one too many drinks. The flush draws Louis in, makes him more and more enamoured and endeared by Harry than he ever thought possible. Louis can’t believe he finds himself smitten with a  _ prince _ a few minutes into meeting him. 

Louis feels his own cheeks grow hot at the continued spilling of words from Harry’s mouth. It makes him want to turn his back and run away, to the comfort of his own room, his own bed, where he can lay for a week and create endless sonnets and poems solely based off the beauty of the softness of Harry’s voice, the softness of his hair, his skin, his eyes. Louis controls himself however, and instead, stays and basks in Harry’s presence. 

Louis nods slowly, hesitantly, not trusting himself to speak just yet.

A smile breaks out on Harry’s face, bright and beautiful, absolutely the largest thing in the room. “What role shall I take?”

Louis is instantly breathless, stunned by the beauty that overtakes Harry’s person. He’s speechless, frozen in time, his brain processing words slower than molasses moves. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was even holding as his voice and lips so delicately form his words. 

“Juliet. You’ll play the beautiful,  _ passionate _ Juliet,” he nearly whispers. Juliet, one of Louis’ favorite characters he’s ever written, just seems so perfect for the prince to play. It’s almost as if Louis wrote the role just for Harry.

Niall, who is strangely standing just outside of the bubble Harry and Louis have created for themselves, violently whips his head around, looking between the pair with a mixture of confusion and anger. “Romeo and Juliet? But, but Macbeth—”

“We’ll be putting on Romeo and Juliet, Niall. Please make sure all the arrangements are seen to.” Louis doesn’t even break his eye contact with Harry as he speaks to Niall. 

Niall huffs and exits the office quickly, leaving Harry and Louis by themselves. Despite Niall’s rude interruptions, they still feel engulfed in their own solitary world, staring longingly at each other, the initial enchantment still not worn off. 

Louis never actually agreed to putting on Macbeth, like Niall assumes he did, but how could he put on such a tragedy like Macbeth when the inspirational beauty that is Prince Harry is standing before him? In the moment it just felt right to choose Romeo and Juliet; still a tragedy, but a play born from love, passion, and a forbidden romance.

Or maybe Louis just secretly wanted to see Harry as Juliet, dress, makeup, wig, and all. 

… 

Once Harry finally departs with the promise to return the next day for rehearsals, Louis finds Niall in his kitchen. He is, of course, hunched over the table, sitting in the lone chair Louis keeps pushed under it. There’s a full mug of strong ale to his right and a plate of slightly stale bread and jam in front of him. A plate of bread that was supposed to last Louis for a while—he was saving it for a rainy day. Now it looks like he was just saving it for Niall’s empty stomach.  

“Thou art as fat as butter,” Louis mumbles to himself as he drags his feet across the wooden floors. He decides to sit on top of the table, the wood uncomfortable, but a blessing as it takes the pressure off the soles of his feet. Louis picks a piece of bread off the plate and slathers jam on it to mask the old taste. He promptly ignores the dirty look Niall sends him as he happily chews away, humming and swinging his feet freely. 

“What’s your deal?”

“Wha d’ya mean?” Louis mumbles, cheeks full. 

“What I mean is what the hell was all that,” Niall gestures vaguely, “with Harry?”

Louis shrugs, dipping his fingertips into the pot of jam. He brings it to his mouth and sucks the grape flavor off, giving a look of indifference to Niall. 

“It was nothing.”

It was definitely something. Louis just isn’t going to tell that to Niall. There’s  _ no way _ Louis is going to tell Niall that Prince Harry is going to join their company. The same prince who, as just a child, Louis swore would stay his best friend until the end of the world. 

Chills wrack through Louis’ body. Ever since Louis met Harry at such a young age, he has tried his hardest to pay attention to the royal world. Many London peasants could care less about the noble world, whereas others are seemingly obsessed with all political matters. Louis has tried his whole life to downplay his curiosity over the family, but it’s especially hard to do so when the entire family experiences tragedy after tragedy. 

Louis was devastated by the news of Harry’s mother passing away. He was even further shocked by the whispered rumors and gossip of the peasants saying that she was a witch. And Louis knows Harry’s father continues to create giant divisions between Harry and his half-siblings. Louis is aware of the dread of possible wars. He’s even more aware of how Harry wishes he could quit it all. 

The prince’s face never sees the light of day—the public hasn’t seen him in over a decade. Harry doesn’t want the life the heir of the throne should have. Louis could tell that Harry, even from the age of twelve, just wanted to be free from it all. Maybe that’s why he showed up at Louis’ house on a humid Saturday afternoon. He wants to be free, live off a lowly stage actor’s wages, and experience life outside of the palace; life outside of velvets, silks, wine, crystals, and jewels. He has yet to court any women nor produce an heir. Harry wants to be far away from royalty. Louis doesn’t blame him. 

Louis doesn’t tell any of this to Niall, though. He can’t. It’s obvious that Harry doesn’t recognize Louis—and he shouldn’t. Louis is afraid that there may have been a hint of  _ something _ that caught Harry off guard, but Louis is convinced it was nothing. Harry has only met Louis Tomlinson, son of a glove maker, not William Shakespeare, romantic, intelligent, and witty playwright. Even if he does recognize Louis’ face, the name should be enough to throw him off. 

Louis decides to abandon Niall for the rest of the night, telling the slob to go home knowing well enough that Niall will drink just as fast as the sun sets and end up falling asleep still sitting in the single chair in the kitchen. It  _ is _ the only reason Louis has a chair in there at all, anyway. 

But as Louis lies in bed at night, he can’t help but be plagued by thoughts of Harry. His mind won’t shut up, his fingers itching with the need to wrap themselves around a quill and spell out the words tumbling around his mind.

He confines himself to his bed, though. He tries to let the softness of the mattress under his back and the darkness of the bedroom to lull him into sleep. He urges his body to relax and sink into the endless night and he’s so, so close to doing so, but the image of fair, young Harry keeps him falling over the edge.

He gives in and lets himself think about the prince. He’s so young, so beautiful. But Louis doesn’t want to think of these things—he can’t possibly. Harry now works for him, under him. Harry is going to be in his plays, Harry is going to bring Louis’ words to life. Louis doesn’t know if he’ll be able to control himself. Does he want to control himself? He should control himself. Harry shouldn’t waste his beauty by simply acting in plays; he should be out in the world finding a princess to marry, to reproduce with and have an heir to his throne. 

Louis swings his legs off his bed and stumbles to the tiny desk in the corner of his bedroom. He doesn’t prefer writing up here, but he does leave a spare ink pot and quill in case inspiration ever strikes him in the middle of the night. 

The night is as cold as the color of the sky is, the stars barely visible through Louis’ dirty windows and the clouds that lay beyond them. London is quiet under the darkness of the night and it gives Louis a whole different feeling of peace as he stumbles his way across the room, bare feet tripping over themselves as he blindly guides his body to the workstation. 

He lights a lonely candle as he takes his seat, searching the table top for an empty sheet of parchment. As soon as the quill hits the paper, he hesitates. He screws up his nose under the warm orange of the candle’s flame. The words he attempts to write are nothing but flourish. He can’t have that. He needs to write what he’s feeling, this weird amalgamation of words and thoughts and emotions fighting within him for dominance need to be pressed into paper. He needs to make sense of it all. He wants to keep Harry to himself, but he knows at the same time that that is not Harry’s destiny. 

Finally, the words flow from him. Everything that’s fighting within him comes out on paper.  _ From fairest creatures we desire increase, that thereby beauty’s rose might never die, but as the riper should by time decease, his tender heir might bear his memory… _

He writes in earnest, addressing this person… this man, he admits to himself, who is so beloved and full of fair youth. As Louis writes he contemplates his split mind, the half that thinks this is oh so wrong and the half of him that wants this more than anything. He doesn’t let himself think of what he wants though, he won’t admit it on paper just yet.

As he finishes scrawling out his first sonnet, he decides it’s time to finally crawl back into bed. Under the warmth and heaviness of the blankets, he lets his mind drift. He thinks of everything he didn’t let himself think of as he was writing: how inspired he feels by the image of Harry acting for him and how the image just seems to possess him, not allowing him to think of anything else. When he feels the itching feeling in his fingers again, he decides that this time, he’s going to ignore it and instead lets sleep take him over. 

… 

The cobble streets of London are noisy, crowded, and dirty. Everyone is yelling, people are literally everywhere, and everything smells. The narrow streets are bustling with people going places, carriage wheels turning, horses clacking their hooves against the stone, and the ugly remains of what people once ate streaming down the road in brown murky puddles. The houses that line the roads are tall, towering, and haphazardly crammed together in some sort of arrangement. They look like they could topple at any moment onto any of the merchants, pedestrians, starving beggars, and pickpockets wandering past. It is the most disgusting and dangerous environment to ever step foot in. 

Louis  _ loves _ it.

He pays no mind to the people passing him by as he makes his way to the Globe. It’s his favorite place to be. The three story building built solely with timber and plaster is a masterpiece in Louis’ eyes. It’s everything he loves and everything he ever wanted since he was a little boy writing stories in the classroom of his grammar school back in Stratford. 

He remembers the first time he found his way into the playhouse. His feet ached from his journey across London, a city he was barely familiar with at the time. He was looking to sell one of his plays. He just wanted  _ one _ success to show that the move was all worth it—leaving behind his home and family, changing his name, it was all going to be worth something. Before looking for the head of the theatre, though, Louis decided to should see a play first. He paid a penny to stand the whole time, and as his feet ached, his mind feasted on the beauty of the words being fed to him by the men on stage. Men who played male and female, protagonist and antagonist, serious guard and foolish jester. Louis wanted that to be his plays they were speaking. Louis wanted the beautiful words spilling from their practiced mouths to be his words. Louis yearned for the day he would be able to stand amongst the groundlings and hear his words being proclaimed out in the open like that. 

Now Louis is on the way to his very own playhouse where he has the opportunity to hear everything he’s written be performed. 

The day is cold and misty, a possibility of storms rolling in, the dirty ground more muddy than firm, Louis’ boots sinking with every step forward. He shivers fiercely as an early spring breeze rolls off the banks of the Thames. The closer he gets to the Globe, the faster he walks, his eyes glued to its emergence on the horizon. He doesn’t care for the view of the waterfront just to his immediate right, the gorgeous circular structure of the theatre is the most beautiful thing in London.

Although the sight of the beloved theatre usually causes Louis to perk up every morning, he can’t find the energy in himself after a restless night to be in a glorious mood this morning. He enters the Globe through the back door and navigates his way through the back until he’s breaking out into the pit. 

His players are all present and accounted for, already separated into tiny groups sitting around the theatre with papers clutched in their hands, practicing lines with each other. His eyes immediately find Harry who is sitting with Liam. He can’t hear from where he’s standing, but he sees their lips moving, and whenever Harry hesitates or stumbles, Liam tries his best to point him in the right direction. Occasionally, Louis catches Harry looking at Louis rather than the text clutched in his hand, the same confused glint in his eyes from the day before. Harry studies Louis in short bursts when he thinks Louis’ not looking. He stares at Louis as if he has the answer to a mystical question inside his head and looks away when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for.

Louis decides it’s best if he stays at a distance. He plants his feet firmly to the ground, not wanting them to betray him and carry him to the source of the brightness in the room, because, despite his confusion and the staring, Harry seems to be glowing this morning. His cheeks are slightly flushed a wondrous pink, probably from the many mistakes he’s encountering as he reads through the script for the first time. Louis quietly observes Harry’s beauty, the way his long hair shifts carefully in the slight breeze, how his lips turn a stark white then a deep red every time his square teeth bite into them. His long, clean, skinny fingers shake with uncertainty as he turns the pages, his eyes rapidly flicking back and forth following the words Louis spent months writing to perfection. 

Something—someone—elbows him harshly in the side, causing Louis to fall from his daydream. Louis turns to his best friend, sending him a deadly glare. The fact that Niall looks rosy-cheeked and alive rather than hungover only causes Louis to glare harder, eyes almost closed with how hard he’s squinting.

“You’re not looking so good today, boss,” Niall comments as he surveys the actors spread around the theatre, hands on his hips, like he has any actual authority around here. 

“Shut up,” Louis mumbles, hostile. “I didn’t sleep a lot.” He goes back to staring at Harry. It’s probably the only way to calm his boiling blood after talking to Niall Horan, the cream faced loon that he is. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Niall smirk. “I know.”

Affronted, Louis turns to look at him, huffing. “What is that supposed to mean!?”

Niall shrugs. 

Louis, still offended, turns back to look at Harry. As he reads, his back a bit straighter now, he visibly gains confidence. He seems to be speaking his lines more fluidly. He’s keeping up with Liam’s speed easily, it appears. Louis couldn’t be prouder. He can’t wait to see him on the stage, full makeup, costume, everything.

Silence stretches between Louis and Niall before either of them speak again.

“You know, he didn’t fit in any of the dress we have.”

Louis may be a poet, but sometimes the riddles Niall speaks in are beyond comprehension. “What nonsense do you speak of this time, Niall?”

“Harry.” Niall shrugs in his direction. “He didn’t fit in any of our costumes—the waist is much too big for him,” he explains. “We had to put Zayn in a corset for him to even barely fit into those dresses. Harry doesn’t even need a corset. He doesn’t even need to button the dress to take it on or off.”

Louis is suddenly attacked by images of Harry in a corset. Images of Harry  _ only _ in a corset. It has him feeling an array of emotions: confused, excited, inspired,  _ aroused. _

“W-well,” Louis stutters. He clears his throat, twice, before he can properly speak again. “Find him something that does fit. It’s been awhile since the last time we put on Romeo and Juliet and it was a disaster the last time we did. This time, we’ll actually do my writing justice. Hmm?” 

Niall falls into a belly laughing and walks away without bothering to answer Louis. Hopefully he’s going to find Harry a dress. 

Louis stays put for a few minutes longer, thinking about Harry and that damn dress. Louis hasn’t seen this current version of Harry in royal garb like he had with twelve year old Harry; he comes to the theatre dressed to fit in with normal Londoners and the peasants by disguising himself with the normal brown and white fabrics. He was adorable back then, in his brand new breeches that he instantly soiled with grass and dirt stains. Louis believes he would be even more adorable now, but as Louis pictures Harry in  _ female _ royal garb, he can’t help but become instantly aroused. He feels his face heat up, instantly feeling uncomfortable by standing out wide in the open. He turns his back on his actors and he goes to find Niall so they can figure out what to do about this dress situation before he publicly embarrasses himself in front of his company. 

… 

Over the last few days, Louis’ infatuation over Harry has become more of an obsession. His emotions for the prince run high more often than not. He can’t not think of his pale skin, his pink lips, his luscious hair. He spends night after night writing tiny poems, sonnets, about Harry—for Harry. He tries his hardest to convince himself he shouldn’t want Harry, that he shouldn’t have this unexplainable urge to steal the prince away from his family and royal obligations and just run away with him.

It’s another late night, fiffteen different sonnets spread out on the desk in front of him in the candlelight of his office, and he keeps attempting to write more. He’s scribbling, throwing paper after paper away, trying his hardest to get his ideas out. He’s still writing to Harry, still trying to say everything on paper that he would never be able to say to his face, when he hears something peculiar happening outside. Louis jerks, the noise startling him. He steadies his wobbling ink pot, not wanting to knock it over  _ again. _

His legs are stiff, feeling as wooden as his desk, as he goes to stand. He exits his office, the candle dish in his hand, and walks towards the front door of his flat to investigate. It could be a scavenging creature looking for food remains, something Louis could easily whack away with a broom, or it could be a scavenging human looking to kill Louis and steal everything he owns—something Louis could not easily whack away with a broom. 

The thought of the unknown is a bit frightening, but Louis has nothing to lose, so he pulls his front door open fast, only to reveal an equally startled Prince Harry. In the dim light of the candle, he is beautiful and that is more surprising than his presence on Louis’ doorstep. 

They stand there simply staring at each other, until Louis grabs Harry’s wrist, not really thinking about his actions, and pulls Harry into his house. He places the candle down on a small table by the front door and promptly shuts the door behind Harry, locking it. He then guides Harry to his office, far from the door just in case anything else is lurking in the darkness of London. 

“What are you doing here?!” Louis whispers, voice hard, heart beating wildly. 

They are extremely close to each other, Louis talking frantically with his hands, waving them about in the space between them. The dancing flame of the candle casts a soft orange glow over Harry’s porcelain skin. His eyes are a dark green, Louis can barely tell them apart from the pupil, but the tiny golden flecks hidden within the pools of darkness reflect the warmth Louis seeks. 

Harry bites his lip. “I’m confused,” he quietly admits, eyes falling to the floor.

“Confused?”

After a pause, Harry’s eyes catch Louis’ again. He looks reluctantly confident—like he wants to reach out and touch Louis but something is stopping him. “Why is this face of beauty ringing so true?” The genuine confusion in Harry’s voice causes Louis’ chest to painfully twinge. “You’re a complete stranger in my eyes, William Shakespeare, but not in my heart. How is that possible?”

Louis’ heart rate rises. “What do you mean?” He knows exactly what Harry’s words mean. 

Instead of answering Louis’ question, Harry tilts his head peculiarly. His eyes drop to Louis’ hands, still suspended in the air between them. Louis’ golden skin attracts the flame of the candle, making him appear to be glowing from within. 

Harry’s cold, pale fingers wrap themselves around Louis’ wrists. He turns Louis’ hands with his own. Louis watches Harry’s face closely as he inspects Louis’ hands. He bites his lower lip hard, releasing the pink flesh only to immediately soothe it over with a tiny, wet flick of his tongue. Louis gulps as Harry’s soft, raspy voice fills the silence between them.

“Your fingers…”

Louis finally looks down to see what Harry’s seeing. Harry is softly tracing the marks on his fingertips, fingertips that are so permanently stained with ink that the blackness has dried under his nail bed. 

Louis dismisses Harry’s comments with a slight raise of his shoulders. “Just ink,” he mumbles, voice incredibly soft.

Harry holds Louis’ hand reverently, staring at it with such an intensity it feels like his hand is on fire. It’s so quiet in Louis’ office, he can hear Harry’s shaky breathing mingle with the slight chirping of the crickets and the buzz of moths. It’s so quiet that Louis feels like he and Harry don’t exist in this world, that they’re in their own little alternate timeline where everything is soft and Harry is the most beautiful thing to exist. 

Harry slowly, and oh so delicately, raises Louis’ hand to lips. He places the tiniest kiss to the skin of the back of it, his lips still brushing against the skin as he whispers, “They’re so black, it’s like you bleed it.”

Louis’ breath hitches. “Bleed what?”

“Ink,” Harry whispers. He straightens his back, but keeps Louis’ palm locked in his own. “The ink that crafts your words bleed from your fingertips, that’s why they’re so beautiful. They’re intrinsic; they so perfectly capture the rawest human emotion.  _ That’s _ how you do it,” Harry says quietly, voice filled with awe. “You bleed ink, that’s how you tell the most enchanting stories.”

In this moment, Louis doesn’t understand how anything in this world could be more enchanting than Harry. 

Their eyes are locked, they’re breathing the same air, bodies impossibly close to one another. Louis basks in the heat rolling of off Harry, his own body being drawn towards the source of the warmth. Harry doesn’t look real under the flicker of the flame of the candle, but luckily he is and he’s right here in front of Louis. Louis wants to kiss him.

He’s impossibly close to doing so, too. He’s about to lean in and finally,  _ finally _ figure out what Harry tastes like, but then the moment is shattered into a million shards of glass, Harry dropping Louis’ hand, taking a step back, avoiding Louis’ gaze. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, absolutely broken. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to.” He takes a few more frantic step backwards. Louis feels colder the farther away Harry moves from him. “I should go. I was just—confused. Surely you don’t have the answers I’m looking for, William. My apologies. I should—”

Louis doesn’t want Harry to go. He can’t let him go. Their precious moment may be lost for now, but he can’t let go of him—not when he finally has him. That would be unfair. 

Louis takes a step forward, hesitantly reaching out, finally wrapping his ink stained fingers around Harry’s delicate wrist. “Since—since you’re here. D-do you need help with lines or…  _ anything _ ?” Louis is aware of how desperate he sounds, but he needs Harry to stay. 

The world freezes as green eyes meet blue. Everything turns to hues to teal and Louis feels like he’s drowning in the silence as he waits for Harry to say or do  _ something.  _

Louis snaps back into reality as he watches Harry swallow the lump in his throat. He takes a small step forward and turns his hand in Louis’ grasp until they’re back to holding hands. 

“Yeah, actually,” Harry’s eyes bore into Louis’ as he gradually takes the bait, voice as slow and rich as molasses as he replies. “Think I might need help with lines. Memorizing is quite hard.”

Louis can’t help but chuckle, lightly squeezing Harry’s hand. 

That night, under the light of an orange flame, Louis gives Harry tips on how to memorize lines and how to speak them loudly, clearly, and fluidly. Louis has everything he’s ever written engraved into his mind forever, perks of being the author, so he has Harry repeat lines after him. During the longer soliloquies, Louis can’t help but sit back and listen to Harry’s deep rasp as he methodically, yet so passionately speaks line after line of poetry and rhymes. It’s like Louis wrote these words just for Harry to say late at night, sitting on the wooden planks that make up the creaky floor of Louis’ office. It’s like these words are only good enough for Harry’s lips, will only ever be good enough for Harry’s lips. 

Harry’s steady cadence slowly but surely puts Louis to sleep, and as he drifts off to the prince’s soothing tone, he can’t help but think that Harry’s shoulder feels softer than his own mattress. 

“Goodnight, Will,” Harry whispers into the darkness.

The last thing Louis remembers before being pulled under the tight grip of sleep is how his heart lodged itself in his throat at hearing those two, simple, heart shattering words.

… 

The early morning light filters into Louis’ office, unfortunately shining straight into his face, rousing him from sleep in the worst way possible. As his eyelids crawl open, trying to unstick themselves from one another, Harry’s sleeping form comes into view. His head is pillowed on Louis’ shoulder, his hair a ticklish halo against his neck. Louis’ heart sighs as the playwright comes to the realization Harry’s just as beautiful in the early daylight as he is in the dark of nightfall. 

Dust particles are visible in the air above Louis. He watches as the tiny mites come alive through the light of the sunbeam, dancing, twirling, and bowing on their own special kind of dancefloor to an invisible orchestra. The rest of London has yet to wake up, only early morning merchants dragging themselves and their carts through the narrow streets. No one is shouting yet, there are no horses clomping their paths into the stone, no carriage wheels woodenly jumping and skipping over every loose piece of cobble. It’s peaceful and gives Louis a fever daydream into a future of waking up next to Harry could look like. He immediately stops himself from thinking of that any further.

Out of the corner of Louis’ eye, a shadow passes the closed office door. The tranquility of the morning is broken as Louis’ heart rate rises. Maybe there  _ was _ something outside of his flat last night, someone other than Harry, like an intruder, a murder, a thief. Louis’ heart beats rise to a crescendo as the door violently swings open to unveil an absolutely hideous, grotesque lump of foul deformity—

“Niall!” Louis whisper-yells. 

“Louis!” he whisper-yells right back.

Louis’ eyes practically pop out of his as he whips his head around, making sure Harry is still asleep. Niall notices and cringes.

“Oops… Will!” Niall corrects himself. 

Louis rolls his eyes and carefully detaches himself from the sleeping beauty. We wishes he could spend all morning analyzing the peaceful and vulnerable look on Harry’s face as he rests through the rising sun. Louis wishes he could wake up in an actual bed with Harry one day and do just all of that then. 

Louis silently shuts his office’s door behind him before he drags Niall by the ear in the kitchen, far from Harry’s sleeping form.

“What the fuck was that, Lou! Is that Harry?”

Louis rubs the back of his neck, trying to soothe himself. “Maybe.” His voice is shaky.

“Why is Harry here, Louis? What did you do to him?”

“Nothing!” Louis throws his hands up in exasperation.

“Are you sure—”

“Yes, I’m sure!”

Louis’ entire body freezes, his ear tingling as he hears floorboards creaking. Niall closes his half-open mouth, hearing the stirring as well. Harry must be awake and heading their way. Good. Louis would much rather see  _ him _ in the early morning glow of the kitchen than Niall.  

A disgruntled Harry pushes his way into the kitchen moments later, hair wild and tangled, deep, dark circles hanging under his bright green eyes. His eyebrows are furrowed, confused, he’s wringing his hands, nervous. 

“I’m… going to go. I’ll see you both at the theatre later.” Harry swallows. “Thank you, William.” His eyes flick softly from Louis’ face to his hands. “Thank you.” 

And just like that, Harry escapes out the front door into the dew of the day. Louis feels like he’s going to throw up. 

The kitchen is disgustingly quiet in the aftermath of Harry’s departure. Niall doesn’t ask the questions Louis knows he’s burning to ask, thankfully understanding that Louis will probably explain everything later with a tinge of drunken sadness lingering within him. Louis is glad Niall is holding his tongue, but he almost wishes he would speak up—the silence more deafening than Louis would like to admit.  

When they meet at the theatre later, Harry’s in the same clothes he was in when he woke up this morning. No one else in the Globe knows like Louis does, except for Niall who catches Louis’ eyes as he passes by. But Louis still knows. Louis knows that Harry couldn’t go home to change out of the rags he wore for a full day and night, the palace to far to travel to and make it back in time for rehearsals. Louis feels a bit guilty as he watches a clueless Liam run lines with Harry over by stage left. But, deep down inside, he also feels a bit of pride. It was  _ him _ who had enough emotional impact on Harry to cause the prince to look messy and flushed throughout the whole day. 

… 

It’s Louis’ favorite day: the day they start running through the play in full—not yet in costume, but one step closer to completion. (One step closer to Louis seeing Harry in his full costume, corset, fitted dress, wig, makeup, everything.)

The sun is bright in the blue sky overhead, shining down on the Globe like a beacon. It heats up the theatre, making Louis’ second home feel warm and welcoming. As he sits in the center of the pit, he readies himself. He is full of energy and excitement, ready to see his company bring his words to life on stage. He’s especially ready to see Harry bring Juliet to life. 

Practicing goes smooth and crisp, but almost too perfect. Louis knows someone is going to fuck up soon. He just knows a mistake is coming. It is their first day of practice, after all. He’s probably going to have to yell at some extra, or Nicholas is going to miss his one line he gets for the whole entire scene, screwing up everyone else’s flow. Something is going to happen that will throw Louis off for the rest of the day, he just knows it. But for now, he just sits back and watches; he soaks up the atmosphere of the theatre, he thrives on it and he watches as his cast thrives on it. He sits, making tiny notes in a mini journal that fits in the palm of his hand. He writes small corrections he needs his boys to fix, pronunciations he needs them to work on, syllabic flows he wants to practice face to face with them. Writing poetry is hard, but speaking it is a whole separate challenge, a challenge Louis wants his company to overcome.

Liam stands center stage, back straight, head held high. He takes on the role of the devilish handsome Romeo and delivers his lines, voice booming off the wood and plaster of the Globe, loud and strong.  _ “She speaks. O, speak again, bright angel! For thou art as glorious to this night…”  _

Louis closes his eyes and soaks in the words Liam speaks. He really is a damn good Romeo. The way his voice captures the beauty of the prose and the raw emotion that is being conveyed within just a few sentences almost makes Louis tear up.  _ This _ is the kind of production he wanted to put on. This is the kind of theatre that every Londoner, from groundling to royal, needs to experience. 

Louis nods his head along with the cadence of Liam’s words, counting each hard and soft syllable in his head. He’s not going to lie, hearing his own beautiful writing being spoken aloud is a bit of a  _ thing _ for him. Louis finds intense pleasure in knowing how well he writes and how well everything he writes reads. He can’t wait to hear Harry speak. 

Louis cringes as Liam trips over a few words here and there, his tongue getting tied in his mouth. Louis lets it slide, it  _ is _ only their first outloud practice like this. He’ll give the muscled man a ribbing afterwards, though, their friendliness making it easy for Louis to make jabs at him and his mistakes. 

Hope and exhilaration swell in Louis’ chest as Liam’s lines reach their end. Harry is about to speak. He’s about to speak some of Louis’ most treasured words he has ever written. He’s heard him practice, shakily delivering them in close proximity to Liam to become familiar with them, and whispering them to himself in the darkness of Louis’ office late at night not too long ago. But now he gets to hear Harry say them out loud and bravely—proudly—to the company and to the observing Louis.

But when Harry’s lines don’t follow Liam’s, Louis furrows his brows. He waits few seconds, thinking his ears just haven’t caught up yet, but then instead of his prose, Louis hears awkward shuffling and coughing coming from the stage.

He opens his eyes, half expecting Harry to be missing for some reason—perhaps a figment of his imagination this whole entire time, but no. Harry is on stage, standing exactly where he was standing when Louis first closed his eyes. He’s still here, still real—not a fever dream. 

Harry’s head is bowed though, his top teeth puncturing his wobbling bottom lip harshly. He twitches every few seconds, his eyes flickering between either being open and side-eyeing the red velvet curtain to his left, or being closed so tightly, it looks like his face is going to burst. Louis doesn’t know what’s happening to the boy, but he needs it to stop right away. Harry may put a spell on Louis every morning he comes in contact with the beautiful prince, but this is Louis’ play, his baby, he needs Harry to respect that.   

“Stop, stop, stop!” Louis calls out from the audience. Everyone in the theatre instantly stills, their awkward shuffling and tiny side conversations coming to a halt, deathly silence ringing loudly. The actors on stage all turn their full attention towards the playwright. “Harry, why aren’t you paying attention?”

Louis watch closely as Harry blushes fiercely, eyes avoiding Louis, but thankfully not closed tightly anymore. Louis hates calling him out like this, but the holdup is all Harry’s fault and he needs to be held responsible. If it were any other person, they would be receiving the same treatment. 

Harry doesn’t even attempt to answer Louis, not really knowing how to, Louis guesses. Louis doesn’t blame him, though. No one wants to anger their director, especially not in the middle of a practice like this.

He needs to take control over his company and theatre; he will not tolerate this kind of behavior. He turns to Harry, his voice softer than intended, yet still stern and authoritative. “Now Harold, do I have to step in and practice the scene  _ with _ you for you to finally pay attention?” 

Harry’s face only continues to get more and more flushed, it’s beautiful. “I-I. I don’t know, s-sir. I—”

“Okay then. C’mon.” Louis stands and make his way onto the stage. He pushes Liam over slightly, taking his place center stage. “Let’s say the lines and move on.”

Louis assumes similar posture Liam previously held, back straight, shoulders squared, head raised high. He looks Harry deliberately in the eye, disregarding his own stage directions, wanting to speak directly to the man himself.  _ “O, speak again, bright angel!”  _ Louis starts. He pushes emotion to his words, momentarily closing his eyes to get in Romeo’s mind as he’s speaking to the beautiful Juliet. 

He opens his eyes right before delivering the last line right before Harry’s first. He catches the look on the prince’s face, it’s full of awe, it’s pure adoration, and a little bit of something more—something completely enchanting.  _ “And sails upon the bosom of the air.” _

Harry clears his throat, raises his voice to register in a higher pitch like he’s been told to do, and finally delivers his missed lines. He sighs through his words beautifully, perfectly. It’s exactly how Louis wanted his words to be spoken. It’s pure beauty.  _ “O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name. Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.” _

Louis listens to poetry in motion. Harry channels all his energy, his body, his emotion, into this exchange. Louis is helpless but to stare and listen. He has such a pull towards Harry, it’s nauseating.

Louis’s fingers shake as Harry’s light, flowery voice asks,  _ “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet.”  _ Louis wants to cry as Harry’s words possess him. How could the very same words he wrote have a completely different impact on him when hearing Harry speak them into the wide open. It’s a magical experience, almost a completely out of body experience. Louis wants Harry to read every word he’s ever written.

By the end of the day, Louis  _ and  _ Harry are emotionally exhausted. Who knew the first run through could be so emotionally draining? 

As Harry departs for the night, leaving the Globe with a tiny wave and nod as a goodbye, Louis can’t help but let out the huge breath of air he’d been holding all day. He waves in return and watches Harry’s back as he walks farther and farther away from where Louis really wants him.

“What the fuck was today, Louis?” Niall whispers, standing at his friend’s side, witnessing Louis’ absolutely disgusting display of affection.

“Niall, you have no soul, so how could you understand the emptiness of a soul that seeks a soulmate?” Louis sighs. His body sags. He’s going to go back to his house tonight, alone, crawl into bed, alone, all the while wishing that Harry filled the empty space next to him.

Niall glares at Louis. “Stop being so fucking dramatic.” He abandons Louis, leaving him standing alone in the center of the Globe as the sun sets dramatically on the horizon, washing everything in the same petal pink shade as Harry’s lips.

…

Louis stuffs his hands in his pockets, the stained skin of his boney hands becoming a bit too sensitive to the chill in the night air as darkness shrouds London around him. The moon is out and she shines bright, lighting the dirt road Louis walks down. He casually looks up, noticing how full she is, the beauty of her glow calming Louis with every step. Wispy clouds pass by her face in a mindless crawl, the fogginess of it giving the moon her special touch for the night.

Louis doesn’t normally wander aimlessly at night, sometimes too afraid of the unknowns lurking in the shadows to take the chance. Tonight, his mind is empty and blank enough to tempt him out onto the streets late at night. 

His feet carry him to his favorite ale house, his body thinking a heavy drink might do him good while his brain pays no attention to where he’s going. 

The ale house looks worn down and shoddy from the outside, the wood broken, the paint chipping. Even the sign is crooked as it hangs from a high point. It all adds character, though, a special touch and personality to an otherwise bland establishment. But its looks attract a certain type of customer and keeps other unwanteds away. 

The atmosphere inside is the complete opposite of the building’s exterior. Once the door is open, the happy, loud, and boisterous ambience hits you straight in the face; it’s a wakeup call for Louis every time. 

Many men greet him with a cheer of his name as he makes his way to the bar, raising their glasses in his honor.

“Will!”

“Mr. Shakespeare!”

“Evening, William!”

Louis walks past, head bowed, a tiny, grateful smile on his face. He’s always a little embarrassed when people yell and cheer for him. Most of the time their sentiments are followed by praise for his plays. It’s something he’ll never get used to. 

He picks up his usual from the barmaid Jade, her caramel skin looking as lovely as ever under the warmth of the candles lighting the space. As she passes off the drink to Louis, she nods in the direction of the back left corner. Louis, confused, follows her direction and looks.

“Niall told me all about ‘im and you,” her voice tickles the back of his neck as she whispers into his ear. “Go over there, sit with ‘im. He’ll do ya good, Lou. You’ll do him some good, too, I reckon.” 

In the darkest corner of the room, Prince Harry is sitting alone, nursing a mug full of golden beer. He probably hasn’t taken one sip yet. Louis definitely hasn’t taken one sip of ale yet, but he’s already feeling the effects of it. Or maybe he’s feeling the effects of Harry’s presence. Both are intoxicating.

Without a word to Jade, Louis hangs his head and shuffles across the floor to the lonely royal sitting in a dank corner of a shit ale house hidden down a shit alley in the shittiest part of London. This is Louis’ favorite place to drink, the place he feels safest to be himself, to act his true self in—all men, no wenches. But Harry couldn’t have possibly known that, meaning he’s here for an entirely different reason altogether. Maybe he found that this place allows him to be his true self too, just like Louis. It’s a thought that causes Louis’ limbs—and lips—to tingle.   

“Can I join you?” he asks, voice low. He’s afraid Harry won’t hear him through the background ruckus of the crowd.

Harry nods, no other reaction coming from him other than his wide eyes, alarmed by Louis’ presence. 

Louis sits, maybe too close. They stay silent. 

Soon enough though, Louis notices out of the corner of his eye that Harry’s lips are moving. He tracks the pink, plush skin with his eyes as he tries to read the words Harry shapes. Louis realizes soon enough. 

Harry speaks the words of Juliet, yet no sound escapes his mouth. He’s practicing the lines without even realizing it, like he just wants something to do with his mouth. That’s why Louis is gnawing on the nail of his thumb; if his mouth wasn’t occupied it would be too tempted to seek out Harry’s.

Finally the silence is broken, Harry’s thoughts finally provoking him enough to speak them out loud.  

“How do you do it?” Harry asks, sweet and curious. Louis wonders if he would taste just as sweet as he sounds.

“Do what?” Harry seems to always ask questions that Louis doesn’t understand.

“Have you ever been in love?” Harry asks, changing the subject. It feels like a bucket of ice cold water has been tossed over Louis’ head. Louis doesn’t want to answer, but Harry’s eyes have him trapped now, and there is no turning back.

“No.”

“How do you do it?” Harry repeats, eyebrows furrowed. He looks like he’s thinking too hard, trying too hard to solve the riddle that is Louis—that is William Shakespeare. 

“Do what?” Two can play at that game.  

Harry melts into his seat, his confusion and curiosity overwhelming him so much so that he can’t even hold proper poster as he sits next to Louis. His fingers grip weakly at the edge of the worn wooden table. Despite his obvious weariness, his eyes haven’t lost an ounce of their intensity. “Your fingers capture the perfect balance between human pain and pleasure, but how do you convey true love in your romances if you’ve never experienced it, William?”

Louis has never known the true reason behind what he writes. He writes what’s in his head, the drama that his mind conjures up on a daily basis. He creates fantasies as he sleeps, he molds characters into who they are when he bathes, he plots a kingdom’s downfall as he eats. He’s written tragedies in the aftermath of nightmares, he’s produced histories while hidden behind endless shelves of textbooks and maps, and his comedies are born after he reads letters his little sisters have written and sent. Louis may have never experienced a true romance or a love affair, but he dreams that one day he will. And a dream is enough to write about for a lifetime. 

“I create entire romances in my dreams,” Louis explains softly. 

And as Harry walks Louis back home that evening, Louis can’t help but do just that. He dreams of holding Harry’s hand in his own; Harry’s skin probably much warmer than Louis’ frozen fingertips. He creates a world in his head where he can kiss Harry every morning, every night, and every minute in between. He wishes for a romance for him and Harry—one just as passionate and beautiful as Romeo and Juliet’s, but without the impending tragedy. He wants to experience the fierce love Claudio and Hero have, he wants the dedication Antonio has for Portia. Louis wants to live out every romance plot he has ever written in his own life. He wants to be the protagonist of his own narrative, the hero who finds true love and gets his happy ending. Instead, Louis is stuck with only dreaming of such wild fantasies and writing them down. He can create entire romances in his dreams, yet he can never live one. 

“I had a great time talking to you tonight, Will,” Harry whispers. The streets of London are so dark, Louis almost forgot Harry was there while he fell deep into thought.

They stop in front of Louis’ tiny little flat, the wooden structure sagging under the weight of the years past. Louis loves his home with every bit of his heart, its flaws and all. 

Louis cringes a bit at Harry’s use of his pen name. Some days it hits him way too hard that Harry doesn’t know Louis—the real Louis—he only knows William Shakespeare. It hurts even more when all Louis wants is for Harry to say his name, to whisper it into the shell of his ear—a name that he doesn’t know exists. But Louis did have a good time with Harry tonight. It was almost too good to be true, and now, as they stand facing each other, Louis wishes he could make the night even better. 

“Me too, Harry,” Louis whispers back equally as soft. 

They stay silent, standing too close together, staring too intensely into the other’s eyes—blue and green meeting in a fiery mix under the warm, luminescent light of the moon. Louis wants to kiss Harry, but Louis doesn’t know if that’s the right thing to do or not; he didn’t write this story, he doesn’t know his part and he doesn’t know how it will end. He’s kind of glad he doesn’t. 

Harry’s body sways and Louis is afraid this is the moment he’ll find out that his story is a tragic one, but instead of moving away, Harry only seems to get closer. His body falls into Louis’, his lips magnetic and instantly attaching to Louis’. They fall into a kiss and they stay under the spell of it, neither wanting to come up for air. Under the moonlight, standing in front of Louis rickety old flat, everything seems sweeter and more beautiful, even in the darkness of London. 

Louis becomes hooked on the feeling of Harry’s lips on his as they kiss the night away. They lose all feeling in their mouths, kissing until Louis’ lips are numb and the petal pink color of Harry’s has changed into a deep, burning, passionate red. Seeing the fiery color only fuels Louis even more, some unknown force pushing him forward to make the lip to lip connection for the hundredth time. This time, though, Louis is rough and desperate. He kisses with a feeling in the pit of his stomach he didn’t know he was capable of feeling. He bites and drags Harry’s lips with his teeth, a surprising amount of lust and determination behind the action. It’s enough to draw a prolonged moan out of Harry, a sound that causes Louis to release a moan of his own. 

They break apart, hesitantly, and take advantage of the separation to inhale lungfuls of oxygen. 

Louis really, really wants to keep kissing Harry, but he feels exhausted, ready to drop down to the soil beneath his feet and fall asleep. He knows Harry’s not feeling much better.

“Hey,” Louis whispers, his forehead pressed to Harry’s, his eyes closed. “Do you have a far walk home?” Louis  _ knows _ Harry has a far walk back to his home—back to the palace.

“No, not far at all,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to Louis’ cheek as a punctuation mark to his response.  

“Because you could stay—”

“I’m fine, Will, I promise.” Another kiss is pressed to Louis’ other cheek. “Thank you, though.”

Louis watches Harry walk away. Maybe he’s going back to the palace, maybe he found somewhere to stay, maybe he sleeps in an alley. Louis will never know, though, and it kills him. 

Despite Louis’ disappointment in Harry deciding to leave, he goes to bed with an overwhelming sense of happiness flooding his veins. He finally kissed Harry, and now that he has he doesn’t ever want to stop. 

…

Louis hums nonsense as he wanders around the back storage rooms of the Globe. He checks sets, costumes, dressing rooms, and more, all while fluttering around the still empty theatre with a happy glow to his skin and a lighthearted flutter with his every move. His head is up in the clouds as he hops from room to room. 

It’s way too early in the morning. That is, it’s way too early for Louis, the worst morning person to ever live, to be up and about and so energetic. He’s here before his actors—before Niall, who is always the first one through the doors every morning. Louis just couldn’t stay in his flat this morning though, an overwhelming feeling of giddiness compelling him to start his morning early. 

The small square windows that line the hallways of the backstage let the golden light of the morning’s rising sun seep through, coloring every room and giving them a heavenly appearance. Louis appreciates it. 

Louis finally finishes obsessively tidying up the back and makes his way out onto the stage. He decides to just simply sit and bask in his good mood. 

Since last night, Louis hasn’t forgotten what Harry’s lips felt like on his. He hasn’t forgotten the taste. He’s committed every single detail to memory: the way Harry’s hands held his chin perfectly, how his body rocked against Louis’, how Louis could feel the tiny flutter of eyelashes against his cheeks at the height of their most tender moment together. 

Louis sighs out loud and closes his eyes as he begins to lay down, his back pressed parallel to his beloved stage. His mind is whirling, so full of imagery—so full of  _ Harry.  _ He lets his words, ideas, and phrases bounce around in his mind, the whirlwind of inspiration so consistent, so  _ perfect _ for the poem laying on the top of his tongue.

_ “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate…” _ Louis muses out into the open air of the theatre, speaking to no one in particular, but speaking  _ of _ someone specifically. “Yet summer is much too short, much too hot. And I might compare you to a summer’s day, my beloved, but you are much more beautiful. You have a beauty that will never fade.”

Louis is so wrapped up in this thinking, in his poetry, that he doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching. 

_ “So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee,”  _ he breathes hard and heavy, like he just ran a far distance, when in fact he is much too excited about everything happening within this mind at the moment. He came up with some brilliant lines on the spot—lines that would’ve taken all night at his desk to craft. The beauty and truly deep emotions of his words take him a bit by surprise, but that’s what he gets when he lets his love for Harry guide his inspiration.

Wait.

His love for H— 

“What was that?” Niall breaks the spell. He shatters the atmosphere of what was, only seconds ago, the isolation of Louis’ dreams and the singular companionship of his words. Niall is now violently intruding on Louis, trying to ask questions, but Louis needs to write it down. He needs to write it down before he forgets.

He gets to his hands and knees and hastily crawls to the edge of stage left where he dropped his belongings when he came into the theatre early that morning. He pulls out his tiny leather bound journal, one already so full of half-finished phrases and idea, one almost complete. On some of the last pages remain, he writes down the words he’s desperately struggling to grasp onto. He can’t forget them. He won’t. 

_ “But thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st…”  _ Louis mumbles the words to himself as he tries his best to shakily write out the words letter by letter, an overexcited tremor in his hands. 

“I have no time for poetry, Lou. Speak in prose, would you?” Niall huffs as Louis puts a flourish on the last word he writes, completely satisfied with everything as he closes his diary and ties it shut. He lays back down on the stage. He’s not being dramatic, he just has a lot of feelings.

“Oh Niall. Sweet, sweet Niall. He is the most beautiful man—creature—to have ever have walked this Earth. He kisses with passion no man or woman has ever kissed with before. He ignites a fire within me that is much too strong to put out. A desire that burns so deep that I can’t help but think of Harry whenever arousal inspires me. I feel a deep seated fondness for such a peculiar man and I found myself falling in love with him, not only once but twice. I could probably fall in love with him in every timeline, in every universe, in every century. He is nothing yet everything I have ever encountered in life before. Harry’s beauty will live on through the years, just as my words will, because he is that profound, and the world must  _ know _ it, Niall. I know it; therefore, everyone else must know it too as it is the God-given truth.” 

“Prose, Louis, prose. I don’t understand what the fuck you’re saying,” Niall whines.

Louis sighs. “I love him, Niall. I want to kiss him, hold him in my arms. I don’t want to let him go. I’m not just living in this world anymore, I’m living in  _ his _ world now. Do you understand  _ that _ ?”

“Oh God, sorry, I’m sorry. Just don’t—Stop it—” Niall gags, cringing away from Louis. “You don’t have to be that sappy—it’s just crude!”

“How else will it get through your thick skull?” Louis sighs, condescendingly.

Louis hears Niall climb onto the stage. He stands above Louis, looking down over him, casting a shadow over his face as he blocks the sunlight from above. 

“What about Anne Hathaway?”

Louis scoffs and turns to his side so he doesn’t have to look at Niall’s face. “What about her, Mr. Horan? A woman who forced me to marry when I was only eighteen years of age? What about the woman who didn’t love me, who only used me—trapped me? The woman  _ I _ didn’t even love or want anything to do with? I left her and the rest of my deplorable life in Stratford-Upon-Avon, a place I never wish to return to.” Louis sits up, this time fury motivating him rather than the memory of his pathetic past. “How  _ dare _ you bring her up in my presence, especially after I talk of who my heart belongs to? I have no, and have never had, any love for her.” Louis rises to his feet, meeting Niall face to face, his eyes burning into his best friend’s. Slowly and aggressively, while poking hard at Niall’s chest with his pointer finger, he spells out: “My heart belongs to Harry, and I think it always has. Since the very beginning.”

Niall’s eyes are wide, his mouth in a straight, frightened line. The whole theatre around them is still, not even a bird singing or a boat on the Thames can be heard. It’s deathly silent. Even when Niall finally does speak, it sounds wrong. 

“The beginning? What is that supposed to mean?” His voice isn’t very loud, the sound, just above a whisper, filling the small between between his and Louis’ bodies. Niall’s confusion and his question lingers in the air, waiting desperately for an answer, for an explanation. 

Louis breathes out his mouth, completely stumped by how he’s going to explain this all to Niall. How is he going to tell Niall that Harry Styles, their lead female role is actually the Prince of England? That he met the young prince at the age of twelve, that he held his hand and chased him around the lawn. How is going to tell Niall that he fell in love with the both the prince  _ and _ their lead female role?

Well, he tells him exactly that, with an easy shrug of his shoulders.

“This shit is more made up than your dramas, Lou. How did you meet the prince? _ And _ at age twelve?”

Louis chuckles. “I was fourteen, he was twelve.”

Niall shakes his head stupidly, his hand pulling at chunks of his hair. “That doesn’t matter! You met The Prince?!”

Louis shrugs. “You’ve met him too, now.”

Louis watches as Niall has a breakdown, everything he’s come to know about Harry shifting around in his head, trying to make sense out of it all. Louis doesn’t blame him—it is quite a task trying to comprehend that Prince Harry is about to dress up as the female Juliet and declare his love on stage for Romeo. Louis isn’t sure he even comprehends it yet. That, or he just wishes  _ he _ were Romeo. Getting to kiss those sinful lips is— 

“Harry is the Prince.” Niall mumbles to himself, the idea of it finally settling. He punches Louis’ arm. “What the fuck! Louis… you know there have been attempts on his life? Haven’t you heard to rumors, the gossip? Impending war, princely assassination attempts?”

Within just one second, Louis goes from completely amused to shockingly terrified. 

Assassination attempts?

The threat of wars?

What the fuck is Harry doing  _ here _ of all places when there have been attempts on his life? Louis is going crazy over this news. He stepped out of the gossip circles once Harry reappeared in his life, figured he wouldn’t need to stay up to date on the affairs of the royalty when he saw one of them every day of the week.

Louis suddenly doesn’t feel well. He drops to the stage, sitting on the hard wood of it, unable to support himself any longer. The same wood that just cushioned the weight of his love-struck body seconds ago he now clings to for steadiness. 

What if something happened to Harry and Louis didn’t find out about it? What if something happened to Harry on his way to the theatre? What if something happened to him  _ at _ the theatre? Louis can’t help but think that every possible bad situation that could’ve happened over the past week would have been his fault. It’s his fault Harry has been staying late nights and coming in for early mornings. People want to take Harry’s life and Louis has only been worried about him having the proper inflexion in his tone during a scene.

Louis’ head spins and spins. Harry is in danger. Harry didn’t tell Louis that he’s in danger. Does Harry even know he’s in danger? Technically, Harry doesn’t even know Louis knows who he really is,  _ and _ Harry doesn’t even know who Louis really is.

Everything is fucked up and all Louis wanted when he woke up this morning was to kiss Harry again. Now, he has to wish that his beloved doesn’t get  _ killed _ in the meantime.

…

Louis watches with rapt attention. He watches Harry closely as the drama comes to an end. Days and days have passed, and Harry keeps practicing the play, getting so much better as time goes on. His enunciation is better than Liam’s, who has been part of Louis’ company for years by now. 

The words Harry speaks cause Louis to swoon. Sometimes Louis forgets he wrote those lines, sometimes he forgets that the pure poetry that is Harry’s body language mixed with the words coming from his mouth is all due to Louis’ direction.  

Louis bites his lip and tries to hold back his tears as Harry wakes up on stage, his voice so full of emotion, his entire body taking on the character of Juliet. Louis knows the ending to his play, he  _ knows _ it better than anyone, but for some reason he can’t hold himself back when Harry desperately calls out.  _ “O comfortable Friar! Where is my lord? I do remember well where I should be, and there I am. Where is my Romeo?” _

_ Where is my Romeo? _ It stings Louis in the heart every time. He breathes through his mouth as Harry sits on stage, going through a wide range of emotions, reacting perfectly to his castmates. Everything is second nature to Harry as he’s up on the stage; it’s completely natural and real. 

Louis’ breath catches in his throat. He will never not affected by Juliet’s death, and it means even more now after the news of the attempted assassinations. When Harry stabs the dagger through his chest, it’s like Louis can actually feel it in his own.

_ “O happy dagger,” _ Harry exhales shakily,  _ “this is thy sheath. There rust and let me die.” _

Louis watches the rest of the play in a haze, Harry on his mind and only Harry. He knows Harry is just sitting backstage waiting for practice to be over, but Louis wants to crawl back there right now and kiss him senseless. 

As soon as humanly possible, Louis escapes to the back and grabs Harry by the wrist harshly, pulling him into a random dressing room. He pushes the door shut with Harry’s body, immediately moving into his space and pressing his slightly chapped lips to Harry’s soft petal pink ones. 

The room is filled with sunlight, the lone window in the wall at the perfect position to let the warm afternoon glow filter through. It smells musty, like wood, like this particular room has been unused for a long period of time. The wood door creaks under the pressure of their combined weight as they push their bodies against it, the wood panels beneath their feet groaning from the same strain too. Everything seems to be happening at once, but Louis’ senses are only filled with Harry; the slight smell of sweat rolling off his temples and around his collarbones, the slight flowery scent that Louis can only smell when he’s close enough, so pretty and fresh against the skin of Harry’s jaw. He can only hear the hitches in Harry’s breathing, the way his throat clogs when Louis rolls his tongue just so or the way he whines incoherently when Louis kisses harder and harder. 

The kiss is nowhere near slow and sweet, it’s messy and rough, Louis dominating the display of passion. He pushes his tongue into Harry’s mouth, Harry reacting beautifully, moaning low in his throat, melting beneath Louis’ insistent hands.

Louis moves to Harry’s throat, nipping and sucking at the skin just as hungrily as he kissed him moments ago. Harry breathes heavily, panting as he tries to catch his breath.

“Will. Will,” Harry breathily gasps, his hips meeting Louis’. 

After that, Harry and Louis kiss whenever they possibly can—desperate to get their hands all over each other, before and after practice. Seeing Harry on stage is the greatest temptation for Louis, and Louis knows that when Harry looks down at him from the stage, all Harry wants to do is climb off it and into Louis’ lap instead. At every possible moment, they hide behind walls, behind columns. They hide in the darkness of the prop room, in the dark of the costume room and kiss until their lips go numb. 

Once they finally start dress rehearsals, Louis finds it impossible to keep his hands off Harry. They lock themselves in the costume room, under the guise of helping Harry change out of his elaborate layers of dress. Instead, they stay locked by their lips, Harry still in his tight dress, Louis’ hand daintily resting against Harry’s tiny waist, his palm squeezing his beloved’s hips, like they’re the most magical things his hands have ever had the privilege to lay on. 

Louis is extremely careful with Harry, the news of the assassination attempts still scary and fresh in his mind. He desperately wants to know more beyond the initial news of the threat, but he just can’t—the royals keeping any new information under tight lock and key. Not even palace insiders are able to spread anymore gossip or rumors in relation to the subject. All Louis wants is to keep Harry safe, though. He never wants to hurt the boy, he wants to cherish him every second he possibly can. 

…

They are the last ones left in the theatre after a long day of constant, nonstop dress rehearsals. Since first sunlight, the whole company has been running around the Globe preparing for tomorrow’s debut showing. It’s now completely dark out, the black sky of London the only thing above them—the stars invisible and the moon completely hidden. After their last run through for the day, Harry and Louis volunteered to stay behind to tidy everything up and have it all organized and ready for tomorrow’s production. Louis’ feet hurt, his throat a little sore from giving direction all day—yelling up at his actors on the stage from where he was standing on the ground. Harry’s been trapped in his corset and dress all day. His powdery makeup is smudged, the elaborate wig on his head askew. He’s a vision and Louis, despite his extreme exhaustion, just can’t seem to stop staring.

They don’t spend long preparing for tomorrow, there wasn’t much to do in the first place—their true motive for staying behind was just so Louis could get his hands on Harry’s body wrapped tight in that dress. 

Their lust for each other the past week has been insatiable. Louis is  _ always _ wound up around Harry nowadays, his head going fuzzy with need, his body yearning for the touch of the younger prince. His body is overwhelmed at any given moment, reacting to the littlest things Harry does. Harry bent over in his dress? A tiny twitch stirs Louis’ pants. Harry declares his love for Romeo? A not-so-tiny twitch stirs Louis’ pants.

It’s all led to this moment, Louis so overwhelmed after a week of dress rehearsals where it seems that he can’t even take his hands off Harry. Judging by Harry’s needy whines, he doesn’t want Louis to take his hands off him either, so that’s a good sign.

They’re leaned against a random support column in the backstage hallways of the Globe, the only sounds heard throughout the whole theatre are their lips smacking together, Harry’s high pitched whines, and Louis’ deep-seated moans.

Harry’s gone out of control, shaking from every touch Louis gives him. His body still wrapped in his dress, wig  _ finally _ discarded to the side, his own long, luscious brown curls spilling over his shoulders inviting Louis to just wrap his hands in and grab fistfuls at a time. He starts to desperately cant his hips towards Louis’, seeking any kind of friction, even underneath his layers of skirts.

“William, Will. Please,” Harry pants against Louis’ neck. “Please, Will.”

“What do you want, baby?” Louis nibbles on the skin of Harry’s neck, dropping kisses after each delicate bite, slowing everything down to a more manageable speed now that Harry’s forming coherent sentences instead of being a moaning mess. 

“You,” Harry whines.

“Can I take you home?” Louis asks, voice incredibly quiet. Louis looks in Harry’s eyes, the reflection of the flame coming from the candle hanging on the wall dances across his emerald green irises. Harry nods once, a tiny smile bending his abused lips. “Can I keep you in the dress? Hm? I wanna take it off you,” Louis whispers into the shell of Harry’s ears, biting the lobe a little too hard before pulling away to look Harry dead in his wide, eager eyes. This time Harry nods a bit more frantically, overwhelmed by the thoughts of what Louis might do to him. 

Louis drags Harry out of the Globe and towards his flat—luckily the playwright doesn’t live too far from the stage. They don’t worry about the dress either, they have extras in the costume room back at the theatre so if this particular dress is missing come showtime tomorrow, it won’t be much of a problem. 

Harry is pulled through Louis’ house all the way to the bedroom. His chest rises and falls rapidly, trying to catch their breath from their midnight marathon from the theatre back to Louis’ flat. Louis watches as Harry’s body moves, the skin glistening with a day’s worth of sweat, his collarbones looking sharp and perfectly framed by the wide open collar of the dress. 

Louis exits the room quickly only to return with a wet rag. He delicately washes off Harry’s last remnants of makeup, his own natural pale skin finally showing through for the first time in over twelve hours. Louis kisses his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, his lips. 

“William?” Harry whispers once Louis drops the rag somewhere out of the way on the floor. Louis’ hands caress down the sides of Harry’s arms only for his palms to meet Harry’s. They intertwine their fingers the second they touch.

A kiss to Harry’s left cheek. “Yes, my beloved?” A kiss to his right. 

“Can you… Can you make love t-to me t-tonight?” Harry looks extremely vulnerable in the dim light of the night. 

Louis is stunned. Prince Harry wants to break his silent vow of virginity to lay with Louis, a playwright and man of no importance. Out of everyone in the world, Harry finally thinks he has found the right person to sleep with—he thinks Louis is that person. Well—Harry thinks William Shakespeare is that person. It hurts Louis more than it should, the fact that Harry trusts his fictional identity more than his true identity. But how could Harry ever know who William Shakespeare really is if Louis won’t tell him? Louis’ emotional turmoil is his own damn fault, but he reasons with him that there ultimately is no difference between William Shakespeare and Louis Tomlinson. Louis still puts the same amount of humanity and life into his plays, no matter if his own name or pen name is attached to it. He doesn’t act or think differently as Shakespeare, so why should he separate the two different entities when they’re the same?

Louis soothes himself and insteads decides to focus on Harry in this moment, and only Harry. No matter if they were intended for William or Louis, Louis doesn’t know how to digest Harry’s words. He doesn’t even know what to make of them before Harry’s in his space, pulling him in close, by the fabric of his shirt, for a passionate, dirty kiss that’s more tongue than anything. It’s nasty and it only serves to fuel Louis even more.

“Yes,” Louis whispers back fiercely. “Yes, anything for you, Harry.”

Louis breaks their kiss, turning Harry’s body around so he has full access to his back. He slowly and deftly starts to release Harry from his dress. Once the back is loosened and Harry can slip out, he’s standing in front of Louis in only undergarments, the stark white color of the new corset a contrast against the yellowed-cream color of other pieces. 

While Harry’s back is still turned, blind to what Louis is doing, Louis finally decides to strip. He quietly removes his clothes, his naked body shivering against the night air, but his cock still showing signs of interest in the sight before him.

Louis removes everything from Harry, leaving the corset for last. Louis runs his hands along the textures of the corset’s boning, his fingertips skipping over every bump, skimming over every silky flat surface. He lets his hands rest in the dip of Harry’s waist for a minute or two before he removes them, his lips dropping kisses to Harry’s back and shoulder blades to still keep the younger man’s body interested in what is to come. 

Louis finally unties the corset’s strings, and once the contraption is removed, Harry’s diaphragm pushes his stomach outwards, his body greedy and finally able to take in copious amounts of oxygen. Now, both Harry and Louis are fully naked and Louis spins Harry around so they’re standing face to face. They quietly regard one another as they view each other in the nude for the first time. It’s a thrilling experience, to have your body be the sole attention of someone else, but to also have someone else’s body as the sole captor of your own attention. 

They fall onto Louis’ bed in a fit of kisses, Louis straddling Harry’s lower body, the position from above giving him the best view and advantage. Harry’s curls are haloed around his head on the pillow, his cheeks are pink, a rosy flush coloring them. He bites his lips nervously, and blinks slowly. He’s so fair, so young, so beautiful. 

Louis’ hands run down the skin of Harry’s chest, stopping where the corset was cinching his waist in only moments ago. The skin there is raw, the corset’s boning and structure leaving harsh indents in Harry’s skin. They will probably fade soon, but they’re quite a sight and Louis can’t help but lean down and trace the red indentations with the pointed tip of his tongue. 

Harry reacts perfectly to Louis’ demonstrations, his back arching up into Louis wanting more contact than he was being given. Louis decides to spin Harry onto his stomach, and from there kisses down his back, licking at his corset marks, but continuing down to his perfect arse. It has the right bounce to it when Louis gives it a tiny slap, and it has the right effect on Harry too, if his loud, insatiable moans are any indication. 

Louis spreads Harry’s arse cheeks and begins licking over Harry’s hole, Harry twitching and moaning with every warm flick of the tongue. 

Louis takes his time working into him slowly, ignoring every plea and beg and cry from Harry to just  _ go faster, please! _ Louis decides to reward him sooner rather than later though and retrieves a vial of oil from his bedside table that he uses to slick up his fingers a healthy amount. He watches Harry’s reactions closely as he slides each finger into him. Harry absolutely loves it, though, and can’t seem to get enough as he starts to push back on Louis’ fingers. 

The room as gotten considerably warmer, the sheets sticking to their skin, their sweat making their bodies slippery in certain spots. Louis is careful when he spins Harry back onto his back. He instructs him on how to spread his legs just so, and how to arch his back so he doesn’t hurt himself. 

As Louis prepares his cock, he can’t help but lean over Harry’s ready body and kiss the man. They kiss longer than Louis thought they would, but he doesn’t mind one bit, enjoying all the attention his lips are receiving. Louis strokes himself in one hand and Harry in other until they’re both ready to explode from their pure want for the other. 

Louis enters Harry slowly and carefully, but the utmost respect, care, and  _ love. _ He moves in and out of Harry with just the right intensity and kindness. Harry’s body is twitching beneath him, his eyes leaking tears. Harry is unabashedly loud as Louis touches him. He is extremely loud as Louis kisses him, the strength of his thrusts rocking their bodies messily. 

They’re loud as they both orgasm at the same time. They float through the clouds as they recover from the intense amounts of pleasure coursing through their veins. Louis has done this before, but has never experienced something so purely intimate.

Soon enough, their breathing slows and syncs together. Their arms are wrapped tightly around each other’s bodies. Louis’ ready to give into his exhaustion when Harry finally speaks.

“I would not have thought it,” Harry sighs dreamily, pressing a kiss to Louis’ shoulder, “there  _ is _ something better than a play!”

Louis can’t help but chuckle—sex is much better than a play. “There is,” he agrees.

Harry hums thoughtly. “Even your play.”

“Hmm?”

“It was better than  _ your _ play—and that was only my first try!”  

Louis laughs out loud, rolling on top of Harry to kiss the boy silly. “In the morning, my beloved. We are well too tired for a second attempt right now.”

Louis falls asleep that night with a whisper of  _ I love you _ into Harry’s ear. He thinks the prince was asleep when he said it, but one could only hope that the younger man had heard it through all the layers of his subconscious. 

…

The Globe is full—completely  _ packed _ with bodies. The groundlings are standing so closely together, it’s unfathomable. The balcony seats are full of the rich and nobles, some who even paid extra to have a cushion under their bums to protect from the harsh wood seats. 

Everything has come together beautifully and Louis couldn’t be any happier than he already is. He rips his eyes off his actors for one second to survey the crowd’s emotions as the final act comes to a close. Many people have tears in their eyes, patting delicately at their cheeks with their fingers or handkerchiefs. Everyone sniffles as quietly as possible so the scene can still be heard. 

Louis looks back at his stage, Harry as Juliet finally appearing. The sight of him nearly knocks Louis off his feet. He’s beautiful, even under all those layers of makeup, and especially under all the layers of dress he has on. The afternoon light shines perfectly through the open roof of the Globe and it causes Harry to seemingly glow. As he stands on stage his figure is slight, even fragile, but eminently graceful. His face is remarkably fine, one that is of precise character best suited to the stage. Louis never would have guessed that the Prince of England would be best suited for a career in acting—and acting as a woman at that, too. Even from a distance, Louis can still clearly see his eyes are an emerald green, brilliant and expressive. His mouth is somewhat large with even teeth and flexible lips that are just so capable of the most effective variations of expression. His voice is rich and voluminous, filling the entire theatre to the brim with the words he speaks. The great charm of his manner is natural. Harry seemingly shines from the inside, like he’s always smiling. And yet, even when no smile is to be seen, a smile more radiantly beautiful than his is quite impossible to conceive.

Their first showing of Romeo and Juliet is a large success. Louis couldn’t be any prouder, and Harry couldn’t be anymore bashful. Louis, who is usually showered with compliments and praise for his writing, is used to everyone congratulating him, but Harry is completely melting under everyone’s attention, people coming up to him to shake his hand and tell him how well done his performance was—that he made them cry when he died. 

Once the theatre empties, and after Louis sneaks a quick, feisty kiss with Harry behind a wall where no one can catch them, the whole company go to the ale house in celebration for a job well done. And so that they can all get spectacularly drunk. Louis decides not to drink, though, already quite drunk on Harry who just so happens to be tied to Louis’ side throughout the whole night. 

They drink glass after glass of ale, their company’s loud voices and boisterous personalities filling the tavern to the brim during the first two hours. Soon enough, though, everyone starts to settle and break into their groups. Some stay at the bar to heckle and attempt to flirt with the barmaid. Many are hunched over a round table gambling over some game. Others have gone home, found a woman for the the night, or are passed out over the top of a table, half empty glasses of ale still clutched in their grip. Niall, Liam, Harry, and Louis are sitting in their own group, still going strong, although Harry looks like he’s slowly losing himself, eyes struggling to stay open, all his body weight resting on Louis, unashamedly of their extreme closeness. 

Niall, who of course had way more to drink than everyone else, is extremely plastered and, as their table tries to engage in a normal conversation, the fool can’t seem to shut the fuck up. He rambles on and on about their show from the afternoon, Harry’s acting, Liam and Harry’s kiss as Romeo and Juliet. He rambles about how brilliant Louis is as an author, he rambles about how stupid Louis is as a person.

“His wit’s as thick as a Tewkesbury mustard,” Louis mumbles to himself in annoyance, although he does pull a few giggles out of Harry whose whole body shakes against Louis’ as he laughs. 

Niall must hear Louis’ snide remark, so the drunkard turns toward him and laughs in his face. “This bastard thinks he’s a lovesick fool! He needs to write something new! Something fresh! The only shit I’ve seen him write are fucking sonnets about Harry here—more than twenty of them!” Harry stirs beside Louis, suddenly awake and staring with wide eyes at Louis. “Let us have pirates, clowns, and a happy ending, for once Louis, or we shall send you back to Stratford to your wife!” Niall cackles endlessly, continuing to talk shit about Louis and his unoriginal plots, but he doesn’t even realize what he just said. He doesn’t realize Louis’ world is collapsing and Harry is two seconds away from crying, slapping Louis, running out of the ale house, or all three at once.

“Who is Louis?” Harry asks, voice a whisper. He’s staring at the table eyebrows furrowed, eyes watering and on the verge of tears. He lifts his head and looks straight at Louis, eyes deadly. His voice is cold and lifeless when he speaks again. “Wife?”

Louis scrambles for words, not wanting to say the wrong thing, but not knowing what the right thing is. “Harry, I can—” 

Harry cuts Louis off and stands abruptly, and without a second of hesitation, he’s running out of the ale house.

Louis immediately follows him, knowing that Harry is still drunk—or tipsy—and is probably tripping over himself as he tries to escape. He also knows exactly where Harry is going, because Harry doesn’t have anywhere else to go. He’s a prince—the palace is too far away, every established except taverns are closed for the night, he has no friends to hide with, and it’s not exactly safe to be out on the streets this time at night. It’s especially not safe for the Prince, you know, with rival countries and rebellious groups who oppose Harry’s father’s leadership attempting to take his life—the life of the current heir to the throne.

Louis chases Harry back to his own flat, because Harry’s not only been staying there for a few nights on and off recently, but Louis also taught him how to jiggle the door  _ just so _ to get it open. He follows the boy who probably feels so betrayed through the front door of his flat, which Harry didn’t even bother to close behind him, and chases him into the bedroom.

Louis makes it through the doorframe just in time to see Harry ready to collapse to the ground, his exhaustion and emotions taking a toll on his body. Louis catches him before he hits the wood, though, and he cradles a hysterically sobbing Harry in his arms.

Louis doesn’t even try to move to the bed, he just encapsulates Harry in his arms and waits for his beloved to calm down and take deep breaths. 

“W-why didn’t y-you tell me? Why d-didn’t you trust m-me enough to tell m-me?” Harry whispers through his tears, his voice hiccuping occasionally, still overwhelmed with emotion. 

Louis battles himself in his mind. How can he explain it to Harry? How can he explain he’s not committed to Ms. Hathaway, that he broke that off, that he doesn’t love her and never has, that she forced him at the age of eighteen and was almost ten years his senior. How can he explain a part of his past that isn’t even relevant or real to him anymore. Louis’ past is exactly where it should be—behind him; it has no influence over who he is now and who he will be in the future. He left it all behind for a reason. It kind of angers Louis. Louis didn’t tell Harry about his past because it doesn’t matter, but Harry never told Louis about who he  _ really _ is—not Harry Styles. Trust is a two way street. 

Harry didn’t even tell Louis who he is. He didn’t think it was important for their budding relationship to maybe say that there have been multiple assassination attempts? That he’s constantly in danger? That outside forces want to take over the throne? That a royal man like Harry couldn’t ever truly love a peasant playwright like Louis? 

“I don’t know, Harry! Why didn’t you tell me there were attempts on your life?!” Louis almost yells. His raise in volume startles Harry, whose tears are now drying stiffly to the skin of his cheeks. 

A range of emotions pass across Harry’s face and he tries to remove himself from Louis’ arms, but Louis won’t let him. Panicky, Harry asks, voice a whisper, “What do you mean?”

Louis presses a small kiss to Harry’s temple. His heart is almost beating out of this chest. He didn’t think he’d be telling Harry this soon, but here they are, a teary mess on his bedroom floor the night after their opening show, Harry slightly drunk on cheap beer, Louis very drunk on Harry. 

“Oh Harry,” Louis sighs, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “My beloved. I have known you since you were only twelve years of age. My father, a glove maker from Stratford-Upon-Avon, and I visited you at your house. I was fourteen. I remember the day as clear as anything; the softness of the grass under our feet, how hard and tight the grip of your hand was on mine as you dragged me throughout the palace. I didn’t care about a single vase or portrait; none of the golds or rich velvets caught my attention—it was you and your emerald eyes that drew me in, Harry. Do you remember? Do you remember that we promised to stay best friends forever and that we would meet again? Because I do, my love, I do remember. I remember everything.” 

Louis watches Harry closely and he can see the exact moment Harry starts to remember it all. So many things happen at once. First, Harry knocks Louis onto his back and straddles his waist, then he starts kissing him, everywhere, but mostly on his lips, hard and messy. He’s crying again, his hands shaking as they try to hold and caress Louis’ jaw. He tries talking too, but his are too busy pressing themselves to Louis’ skin to form any words. 

Finally, he pulls away panting. “Louis. Oh my god, it’s you? It’s actually you?”

“Yes—” Louis is interrupted by more and more and more kisses, his breath literally being snatched out of his body by Harry’s insistent mouth and his intense kisses.

“Yes, it’s me, my beloved,” Louis finally pants out when Harry moves down to his neck. He moans whenever Harry bites into the skin, not wanting to harm him, but wanting to leave his mark. 

“It’s actually you,” Harry cries into Louis’ skin. “I  _ knew _ you looked familiar. Your face, this unchanging thing of beauty, I was so acquainted with for so many years, but your name is what threw me off. I dreamed of you, Louis Tomlinson, almost every night of my youth. You awoke something in me from such a young age and I thought I would never feel that way ever again, but then I saw one of your plays. God, Louis. I idolized you. I idolized William Shakespeare. How funny is it that my two favorite things in the world are one in the same?” Harry giggles. It’s a beautiful sight for Louis to witness: pure happiness and elation radiating from Harry’s face, his dimples a proud display of his enthusiasm. 

Louis flips Harry onto his back while he’s overcome with his emotions. Louis, finally takes control, and decides to give the same treatment to Harry’s neck that Harry gave him. Harry is a moaning mess right away, the pressure of Louis’ teeth and the pleasure of his tongue always instantly turning him on. 

It doesn’t take them long to migrate to the bed, where Louis slowly opens up Harry’s body. Everything is slow, the polar opposite to how fast they were moving mere minutes ago. But Harry loves when they have the opportunity to move slow, so Harry can take Louis slowly. It’s just that bit more intimate and it’s everything their bodies crave. They kiss sensually as Louis hips work in and out of Harry’s body, hands running up and down their bare skin, squeezing and pinching, caressing and tickling. Louis ends up pulling Harry off with his hand so they can come at the same time.

They lay in each other arms, absolutely exhausted, as they come down from their highs. Louis’ body is still tingling, but it’s comfortable. It’s a tingle that tells him he’s next to Harry, that he’s here, he’s safe, and that he loves him more than anything else on this Earth. 

“Why William Shakespeare?” Harry suddenly asks, shattering their silence.

Louis shrugs. “I didn’t want to be linked to my past when I started publishing dramas. William’s my middle name, Shakespeare was our neighbor. I liked them together.”

They grow silent again, quite comfortable just to lay with each other and do absolutely nothing else. Louis’ room has always had a particular atmosphere to it and he can definitely feel it tonight.

It’s still dark outside yet, although the windows are steamy, the moonlight still finds its way through the glass panes to shine itself over their bodies. Louis regards the celestial light as a sign from the heavens above; his and Harry’s love it true, it’s real. Their love is better than anything he’s ever written before. Their love is finally more real than anything he’s ever written before. He will still write about it, though. Afterall, he’s a playwright and poet. He loves to write about love.

He turns his head to look at Harry, who is already looking back at him.

“What are you thinking?” he whispers. A fast, delicate kiss is delivered to Louis’ lips.

_ “An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; a man in hue, all “hues” in his controlling, which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth.” _

Harry blinks dopily at Louis as he yawns. “Which one is that?” 

Louis chuckles, giving Harry’s forehead a kiss of its own. “What do you mean, my love?”

“Which number sonnet?” Harry’s eyes start sliding shut ever so slowly. 

“Twenty, my love,” Louis whispers. “Why?”

Harry hums. 

He takes a few seconds before answering, the silence between them stretching eerily long. Louis guess Harry has finally fallen asleep, and Louis is just about to let sleep overtake him too when Harry finally speaks again. 

“I guess Niall was right. You really did write more than twenty sonnets about me.”

“And I’m still going.”


	3. Epilogue

♕ _epilogue_

When Harry and Louis first ran away to the countryside, they had nowhere to go. With the help of some friendly strangers along the way, they finally found a tiny cottage owned by a little old lady who went by Marie. She was old and frail and let Harry and Louis live in the small guest bedroom. They helped clean up the house and turn it into a home—they weeded the front garden and started growing fruits and vegetables, they helped tame the ivy consuming the left outer wall of the structure, and they practically cleaned every inch of every room.

They were a lovely little family and she didn’t mind at all that Louis was forgetful and occasionally left piles of parchment with half-finished sentences written on them everywhere. She didn’t mind when he would accidently spill his ink pot over onto her dining table, but she did make him try his best to wash the stains off his fingertips before dinner every night. It took him a while to convince her that the stains are a part of him and always will be and water can’t lift them from his skin no matter how hard he tries.

Harry likes to say the stains are a part of Louis just like his writing is, even though he left all of that behind when they ran from London.

Nowadays, it’s just Harry and Louis in the tiny cottage. The wooden walls and thatched roof are tended to well every season to keep up with the wear of the English countryside weather and the garden out front is thriving, no thanks to Louis. Harry’s green thumb keeps them well-fed with fruits and vegetables, and it also provides them with enough to make once a week trips to the nearest town for other kinds of produce and goods. They take their only horse, which Harry insisted on owning since he grew up playing in the palace’s stables, named Marie after their long gone friend, who thankfully lugs all the heavy items Harry and Louis can not carry themselves. They always split up when they get to the market—Harry trading his garden grows for meats, dairy, and eggs, and Louis buying fabrics, thread, more ink, and anything else they need around the house.

Their life is simple and quite the polar opposite of how they used to live, but they’re together and they’re in love and that’s all that matters.

The birds outside are singing their morning songs, the openness of the land and fields surrounding their tiny house offers the best acoustics for the music. At least Harry thinks so—the godawful constant chirping makes Louis want to rip all his hair out—especially in the morning when he’s writing.

Louis bites his lip in concentration and grips his quill tighter, his fingers aching under the intensity.

A breeze gently blows through the open window in front of Louis. It raises the edge of his paper ever so slightly and Louis huffs out a hard breath, the distraction annoying and not really what he needs right now. He’s trying to write.

He squints his eyes against the morning sunshine rising through the glass panes. He’ll never understand why Harry insisted he put his desk in front of the window which faces directly east, it’s more a nuisance than a helpful hand in relaxation and inspiration. He moves closer to his paper so he can see what he’s writing more clearly.

“Stop doing that, you’ll hurt your back even more.”

Louis mumbles to himself, rolling his eyes and pursing his lips, ignoring Harry’s passing remark. He hunches his back even more just to spite his beloved, ignoring the way his spine protests. He tries writing more furiously, forcing words that he just doesn’t have in him out onto the paper into a jumbled, incoherent mess.

Louis is vaguely aware of Harry placing their laundry basket of now dry clothing, fresh off the clothesline in the backyard, to the side and coming to stand next to Louis. He tries not to flinch as Harry delicately places his hand against his spine, gently pressing as he runs it along the length of the curve.

Louis releases the breath he was holding, letting his head drop to the grain of the wood table as Harry continues his ministrations. Harry’s hands are hard, but the roughness works to soothe Louis and his back muscles turn to jelly underneath Harry’s palms.

“You need to stop forcing yourself, love,” Harry whispers as his fingers wrap around Louis’ shoulders, squeezing the tension away. “If the words don’t come, they don’t. It’s not your fault.”

Louis sighs, Harry hands sliding down and focusing around his hips. “I know, I know. Sometimes,” he pauses to think. “Sometimes, I think that I’m failure now.” He says the last part so softly, hoping Harry doesn’t hear.

Harry does hear. He stops his mini massage and instead leans down to wrap his body around Louis’ from behind. He whispers into Louis’ ear as he talks. “Just because you left behind all your works in London with Niall doesn’t mean you’re a failure, Louis. You’re still William Shakespeare—you still wrote those words and those words will be a part of you forever. They will be your legacy.”

“You’re right,” Louis mumbles into the paper, smushed beneath his face.

Harry stands up, pulling Louis with him, chuckling lightheartedly. “Of course I’m right, Lou. I always am. Now c’mon, get up, old man.” Harry puts his arms around Louis’ neck, pulling their bodies close together.

“What are you doing, my beloved?” Louis laughs, as he does he can feel his eyes crinkling in the corners, showing off just how in love he is with and how fond he is of Harry.

Harry bends down and places a soft kiss to Louis’ lips. “Put your hands around my waist,” he instructs.

Louis does as told and Harry shuffles even closer to Louis. Even though he is taller, Harry bends down to place his head upon Louis’ shoulder, and then he starts gently swaying them together, humming.

“Are we dancing?”

“Sh.”

“I was writing—”

“Shhh.”

“—you were doing laundry.”

Harry stops, pulling away, giving Louis a hard look. “Yes, we’re dancing,” he sighs impatiently. “No, you were not writing, you were trying—and _failing._ And the laundry can wait. Now shut up and sway me.”

Louis rocks back and forth on his feet, pulling his beloved along with him. At first, Louis thought Harry to be foolish for making him do such a silly thing like dancing in the middle of their bedroom with no music, but now, with Harry in his arms and their breathing synced together, Louis can admit Harry was onto something.

Louis feels completely at peace, his boy tucked up close to him, the quietness of the countryside soothing his frantic mind. Louis knows Harry is right, he’s just going through a short bout of writer’s block. It’s okay that he’s not turning out new play after new play every day anymore. He used to write to fill a void within him, but now that Harry is the one filling what was once void. It almost feels pointless to continue writing. Louis knows it’s not, but sometimes when he’s at his lowest point, the excuse feels like it’s good enough to explain the multitude of empty pages spread out before him.

He knows, though, that at the end of the day everything will be okay because he’ll be in Harry’s arms and Harry will be in his.

“Louis,” Harry whispers, “do you remember why we wanted to come to the countryside? We wanted to live the lives we wanted. We wanted to be our authentic selves.” Harry tilts his head ever so slightly to look up at Louis. His eyes are just as emerald green as the day they met, as the day Louis watched Harry take the stage in Romeo and Juliet. They still knock Louis off his feet, but they will _never_ fail to show Louis what Harry’s truest emotions are: how sincere he and any of the words he ever speak are, how much love he holds for Louis, and how dedicated he is to their love and life together. Louis sees it all whenever they lock eyes, blue and green mixing into a teal sea.

“So it’s okay that you have writer’s block and it’s okay that you left all your work in London and that no one will ever connect the writings of Louis Tomlinson to William Shakespeare. It’s okay. We weren’t living how we wanted to live when we were in London. But now, my love, now that we’re here together, we can live how we want to live and we can be who we want to be. Forever.”

Louis closes his eyes and buries his face into Harry’s shoulder. They continue their soft sways, Harry’s low, deep humming lulling Louis into a calm state. He cherishes how close he is to Harry right now. He wants to live in this moment forever. And maybe he can. Maybe he can stop writing to fill the void in him, he can stop writing about his dreams and his wishes, and maybe he can start writing about real life, about him and Harry and how their love is all he will ever need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come back once authors are revealed to find a link to my tumblr and the tumblr post! In the mean time, I hope you enjoyed reading this enough to leave me some kudos and a comment. Thank you for reading :')

**Author's Note:**

> Here you'll find my [tumblr](http://hrrytomlinson.tumblr.com/) and here you can find my [rebloggable fic post](http://hrrytomlinson.tumblr.com/post/166429577050/damn-the-dark-damn-the-light-by-hrrytomlinson-for)!! Thanks for reading and I hope you like it - if you do please leave some kudos and comments or reblog the post? xx Thank you for reading :')


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